Mid-year review, 2010: Dawn should be breaking anytime now…
I.
It’s Saturday morning there around 5:30 a.m. and I’m trudging home under a not-so-light, end-of-Autumn rain, bloated with all the champagne and the vodka from last night. Temperature reads there about 50 degrees and I’m soaking wet. I zip up my leather jacket and tuck my hands in its pockets as I pass by the Arts Museum marquee where the homeless sleep sheltered from the downpour, then laugh out loud as I remember the chain of events that led up to now.
They’ll text-message me in a few hours. The girl will text me the inevitable, interminable thank-you note with an apology ultimately boiling down to hoping there’s no vomit on my shoes, and when I tell her that whatever happens on Friday evenings stays on Friday evenings, she’ll reply saying that’s why she likes hanging out with guys like us. The boy, on the other hand, particularly prone not to either conveying emotion or using punctuation, will send me the single terse, concise statement that last night was-- and here’s quoting-- “fucking BIZARRE!!!!!!!!”-- will all those exclamations to boot.
II.
We were already a little hammered by the time we’d arrived at the nightclub, there about midnight or one a.m. At least two of us were blaming the cinnamon on the cocktails but that’s mostly a recurring joke in the métier: There was no mention of the two bottles of champagne tagging along the cocktails, naturally-- but the next two once we got to the bar at the nightclub terrace would prove to be a little more than the entourage could handle. The nightcap-- the fifth bottle back at ____’s place after all was said & done-- was only for the brave and the strong;
We are at the bar at this amazing open terrace at the club, on the balcony of the second floor of an old office building downtown with a view to the cathedral and old art-deco buildings that just aren’t made anymore, and the girl starts to freak out when she notices this famous soap-opera actor by our side. Look at the shoulders on him, she says. He’s dressed up like a goddamn Eskimo, I tell her, then excuse myself to lookup for a stun-gun at the reception area to subdue her if she tries something tacky like asking the actor for a photograph or something. Only, not really, because I’ve just left to look for the bathroom, only to find it underneath the goddamn, honest-to-god stuffed head of a moose hanging high on the wall. The line for the boys room is like four times the line for the girls room. It’s that kind of place. But it’s cool. We’re cool.
Things start to blur as I get back to the bar.
As the actor slips the barman a piece of paper with his phone number on it, and the barman is already, like dating someone or another we know, the girl goes absolutely nuts because he just can’t be gay!. The waitress stops by-- she’s cut her hair real short and we compliment her on it even though the girl later tells me it makes her look like some militant lesbian for women’s lib or something, even though I still find it quite appealing. I’d like to lick her nape, I say, then lick her entire back all the way down to her asshole. But then the waitress swears by the size of the barman’s dick and says it’s a no-brainer the actor’s after him anyhow. I’m absolutely at sea because I can’t for the life of me connect the pieces in the conversation to figure out how we even came from ordering drinks, to the size of the barman’s dick.
The actor’s dressed up like a goddamn Eskimo anyway, I emphasize, then the girl bows down and starts to throw up on my feet-- and the guy starts complaining about either the actor or the barman or both, and I freak out myself because I don’t want vomit on my shoes then we have to leave anyway because the night is pretty much shot.
Some other things also happen. There's a lot going on tonight. And someone mentions one of those Japanese Tengas during conversation, which is pretty odd.
Either way, we get to laugh a lot.
III.
I get to tuck the girl in and even give her some chocolate milk. She asks me if I want to lie down with her and I say yes, only not in the state she’s in. The guy overhears it all and mentions it was strangely out of character of me not to take advantage of the situation. I just shrug, and tell him I think her hair is smelling of vomit anyhow.
Then we open another bottle and drink it up very fast while talking trash.
By the time I leave it’s there about 5:30 in the morning and it’s started to rain.
I zip up my jacket and notice how weird it is that it’s still pitch-black dark. I mean, look at the time: Dawn should be breaking anytime now-- only it’s not.
It’s Saturday morning there around 5:30 a.m. and I’m trudging home under a not-so-light, end-of-Autumn rain, bloated with all the champagne and the vodka from last night. Temperature reads there about 50 degrees and I’m soaking wet. I zip up my leather jacket and tuck my hands in its pockets as I pass by the Arts Museum marquee where the homeless sleep sheltered from the downpour, then laugh out loud as I remember the chain of events that led up to now.
They’ll text-message me in a few hours. The girl will text me the inevitable, interminable thank-you note with an apology ultimately boiling down to hoping there’s no vomit on my shoes, and when I tell her that whatever happens on Friday evenings stays on Friday evenings, she’ll reply saying that’s why she likes hanging out with guys like us. The boy, on the other hand, particularly prone not to either conveying emotion or using punctuation, will send me the single terse, concise statement that last night was-- and here’s quoting-- “fucking BIZARRE!!!!!!!!”-- will all those exclamations to boot.
II.
We were already a little hammered by the time we’d arrived at the nightclub, there about midnight or one a.m. At least two of us were blaming the cinnamon on the cocktails but that’s mostly a recurring joke in the métier: There was no mention of the two bottles of champagne tagging along the cocktails, naturally-- but the next two once we got to the bar at the nightclub terrace would prove to be a little more than the entourage could handle. The nightcap-- the fifth bottle back at ____’s place after all was said & done-- was only for the brave and the strong;
We are at the bar at this amazing open terrace at the club, on the balcony of the second floor of an old office building downtown with a view to the cathedral and old art-deco buildings that just aren’t made anymore, and the girl starts to freak out when she notices this famous soap-opera actor by our side. Look at the shoulders on him, she says. He’s dressed up like a goddamn Eskimo, I tell her, then excuse myself to lookup for a stun-gun at the reception area to subdue her if she tries something tacky like asking the actor for a photograph or something. Only, not really, because I’ve just left to look for the bathroom, only to find it underneath the goddamn, honest-to-god stuffed head of a moose hanging high on the wall. The line for the boys room is like four times the line for the girls room. It’s that kind of place. But it’s cool. We’re cool.
Things start to blur as I get back to the bar.
As the actor slips the barman a piece of paper with his phone number on it, and the barman is already, like dating someone or another we know, the girl goes absolutely nuts because he just can’t be gay!. The waitress stops by-- she’s cut her hair real short and we compliment her on it even though the girl later tells me it makes her look like some militant lesbian for women’s lib or something, even though I still find it quite appealing. I’d like to lick her nape, I say, then lick her entire back all the way down to her asshole. But then the waitress swears by the size of the barman’s dick and says it’s a no-brainer the actor’s after him anyhow. I’m absolutely at sea because I can’t for the life of me connect the pieces in the conversation to figure out how we even came from ordering drinks, to the size of the barman’s dick.
The actor’s dressed up like a goddamn Eskimo anyway, I emphasize, then the girl bows down and starts to throw up on my feet-- and the guy starts complaining about either the actor or the barman or both, and I freak out myself because I don’t want vomit on my shoes then we have to leave anyway because the night is pretty much shot.
Some other things also happen. There's a lot going on tonight. And someone mentions one of those Japanese Tengas during conversation, which is pretty odd.
Either way, we get to laugh a lot.
III.
I get to tuck the girl in and even give her some chocolate milk. She asks me if I want to lie down with her and I say yes, only not in the state she’s in. The guy overhears it all and mentions it was strangely out of character of me not to take advantage of the situation. I just shrug, and tell him I think her hair is smelling of vomit anyhow.
Then we open another bottle and drink it up very fast while talking trash.
By the time I leave it’s there about 5:30 in the morning and it’s started to rain.
I zip up my jacket and notice how weird it is that it’s still pitch-black dark. I mean, look at the time: Dawn should be breaking anytime now-- only it’s not.
posted by 186282mps at 9:44 AM
<< Home